The Luck of Carlisle Cullen
by awilla the hun
Summary: Simple, really: the Memoirs of a sadly underappreciated character, written by an author whose knowledge of Twilight is sadly appreciated. His knowledge of history, happily, is less so. Forgive me if I make mistakes. And please review!


Hello everyone.

As you may have noticed, this story is not your average Twilight fic. There will be no gratuitous mentions of Eddy boy, or the romantic misadventures of Isabella Swan. (On the other hand, said Edward may appear in some small capacity.) On the other hand, neither are there going to be any overt parodies of the fandom in this fic. This is a fic written not by someone who is especially pro or anti-as you can see, the name "Team Edward" is nowhere in sight in my pen name, but nether is "Antis FTW". I am someone who respects good fiction, and the right for people to define it as they see fit. Personally, I dislike reading Twilight. On the other hand, I also find that most romance stories bore me (apart from Pride and Prejudice), and I get no special thrill from Vampires (apart from Count Dracula in, of course, Dracula.) I am therefore not that well qualified to talk about Twilight.

One thing I did appreciate about Twilight, however, is someone who is sadly under appreciated: Carlisle Cullen. I did not especially like his personality (for he does not appear that much.) What I liked about him was the sheer great range of possibilities for fiction. Imagine it: a man who lived through all the great events of the 17th to 21st centuries! All that potential for drama, adventure, romance etc! It would be epic.

Note: I have only read Twilight once, and I do not remember Carlisle's background that clearly.

I also hope that this can be readily appreciated by people from whatever "Team", and Anti and Fan alike as an adventure story. Enjoy! And please review!

When I found that that young scoundrel of a son that I bit in the Flu of '18 was writing his memoirs, I was, to put it bluntly, astonished.

Now, good reader, don't get me wrong. Edward Cullen has many talents: piano playing (although I must confess that it gets a bit irritating at times to hear that ass Debussy thundering through the floorboards throughout the years), wooing ladies, and ripping out the throats of bears for dinner chief among them; but, you know, there is a reason why he has been kept in secondary school for all these years. To wit, his English marks are appalling.

I blame myself, of course. The fact is, when you take a young lad from the age of Wilson, Lenin and Lloyd George, and then expect him to spell like someone from that of Bush, Putin and Brown-or, indeed, to use the same literary conventions- the fact is that you've got your hopes raised a few steps too high. It is perhaps for this reason that he's been getting persistently god-awful marks in every school we've taken him to-and his damned siblings are no better. But, even so, I would have thought that he would have learned by now.

(I try, you know. I threaten to throw him out of the house, and make him live alone; but, the fact is, I'm a sentimental soul. Kicking out my flesh and blood wasn't done in my day, and it won't be in this one, thank'ee very much. He twists me around his little finger, and knows it well.)

But, anyway, to return to my narrative, for what it's worth.

"Edward," I said, "how d'ye expect to write your memoirs?"

"Dad," said he, "I'll be fine."

"But-" I began.

"Don't worry," says he. "I've got Microsoft Word on my PC. It uses spell-check! If I talk about _serjeants_ or anything, then the machine will simply change it."

I shook my head in disbelief. "But won't it be rather difficult to make these memoirs seem remotely… well, truthful?"

"What do you mean, father?" asks he, all innocence, in the accent that tells me trouble's brewing on the horizon.

"Well," said I, "for one thing, the American public largely doesn't believe that the Vampire exists. And for another, we _are not supposed to tell them that we are real!_ If you go on about telling 'em that we're living in Forks and making the beast with two backs with the local womenfolk, then-well, they won't like it. In fact, they'll probably start sending in their SWAT Teams, and then what fools we'd look."

"No Dad," he replied, grinning. (I have heard the phrase "wolfish grin", and using it about that feckless son of mine barely even begins to cover the sense of unease that develops within your's truly when it's used.) "I've got a plan for it."

"A plan?" asks I, weakly like.

"Yes. I've made myself a good pen name, and intend to market it as a fantasy romance. You know, like those Anne Rice books. I've even got a Mormon woman to pretend to be author-Stephanie Meyer she calls herself, and she's really great. Anyway, we're splitting the profits fifty-fifty, and she says that she likes the idea…"

The rest, as they say, is history. I gather that the profits have been discreetly given to a good cause (although why Edward insists in writing it from the point of view of that girl of his remains beyond me), and the quality of it-well, after spending a couple of hours one night reading reviews on amazon, I shall leave that for you to decide.

Anyway, when I turned over the final pages of the final volume (the ending of which I shall leave the reader to guess at), I had a sudden thought.

"You know, Esme," said I to my better half, "I could have a crack at this."

"Yes dear," says she absently, before turning back to Google. (A page about some old pile near Virginia, as I recall. She does like looking at the things, does Esme; personally, I can't see the attraction.)

"Memoir writing, I mean. I've had a fair whack at the whip, you know. Been a few places, seen a good few things done." I rubbed my hands.

"Of course dear." She busied herself with google again.

"Aren't you interested?"

"Well, there is the thing that you haven't written before." She had looked up sharply from her internetting.

"Yes, but-"

"And you always kept telling me how your life was so boring and dreary," she went on.

"Darling, that was so as I didn't have to sit down and spend about four days telling you the whole story. You always were a stickler for detail, and I knew that if I started talking, I'd probably never finish it."

She gave me one of her looks. You know the sort of look: the one that assures the husband that bacon and eggs are soon to be replaced on the breakfast plate with something scooped off a book with a title like "Doctor Zinger Twistleton's How To Lose a Ton in Ten Days. No Profits go to Charity. 100% approved by my One Man Sample." (Well, not in my case, as the Vampire doesn't need to eat as such. But I can't think of a proper analogy without going into the gory details of ripping out various types of animal throat, so I use this one instead. I rather like it, myself. The analogy, I mean.)

"Well," says I, "I can include our first love. You know, the one that we told our darling son to leave out of the _Twilight _affair for fear of embarrassment."

The look, it would suffice to say, softened.

It softened enough for me to take her place at the family work PC, ask her once more to buy a laptop, and then set to work.

These memoirs are not going to be especially coherent; neither do I expect them to be that well written. However, it was my firm belief that, if my son can do it, so can the father (who did things, I might add, marginally more interesting than seducing and biting a 16 year old from Arizona in his immortal life.) You know the beginning, of course-my son said it accurately enough in his little book. But you don't know what went on in between.

And that is where my humble scribblings come in.


End file.
